The case for a consulting doctor
by rapalacha
Summary: When Sherlock falls ill, John needs to find out what is going on with him. Fast. Sherlock is getting worse...
1. Chapter 1

"You really should see a doctor." First time John said this to his flatmate, he meant it mostly as a good joke. But that was four days ago. Now he does no loger find it that funny. Actually, he´s getting seriously conserned about his friend´s health. Sherlock is obviously in some kind of pain and he obviously feels sick. But he won´t admitt it - not a big surprise.

John´s taughts were interupted by Sherlock coming into the living room. John´s trained doctor´s eye immediately noticed his steps were a bit unsure and John added dizziness to the list of symptoms in his head.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked, but he was pretty certain what answer is to come.

"I´m fine." Well, John was right again. He knew his friend good enough to tell this. And he knew him good enough to tell he is definitely not "fine". His instincts were shouting not to stop watching Sherlock for even one second.

"Right. That´s it. You´re telling me what´s wrong with you right now or I´m driving you to the nearest hospital." John sounded very decided but worried in the same time.

"I´m fine, really, John. I´m fine...I... just..."Sherlock mumbled - his eyes closed, clearly not having the energy to open them or to develop some better arguments against John.

"No, you´re not. " said John, this time the worried part of him slightly overtaking. "Tell me what hurts?"

There was only silence instead of an aswer.

"Well, here is what I know. Backpain, started four days ago, first only in your lumbar spine but than spreading, finally radiating to your head. But the headache wasn´t a real problem till last night, when it developed to a pretty nasty migrene, causing slight nausea. Then of course there is this cough, you´re so desperately trying to hide from me. Gets worse when you lay down - which I know even if you cover your head every time with a blanket - So I´d say there is a breathing difficulty connected, althought I can´t know for sure. But you didn´t have a decent night sleep at least three nights. Finally, this mornig you presented with slight fever, sweathing and dizziness, which means your state is deteorating."

Even despite his weakness, Sherlock opened his eyes in astonishment. "How did you.."he started but John interrupted.

"How did I know? Guess Sherlock. I didn´t know. I observed...I´m a doctor, remember? That´s just what I do. Much more important is - Is there something else I should know? "

"I fell terrible, John. It´s hurting. I can´t ...do this. Please...do something." Sherlock almost cried.

"All right. Don´t you worry. "John said, his voice both stong and comforting, but deep inside, he panicked. He has never seen his friend loose his self-control this much. This was a very bad sign. "Sherlock?"he put his hand on his friends shoulder "Why don´t you wait here a sec, I go get my medical kit and we´ll see what we can do, right? We will figure this one out. I´ll be back in a minute."

John ran up the stairs to his bedroom as fast as he could and he pulled his orange medical bag from under his bed. The bag was big and well equiped - even a small regional hospital woudn´t be ashamed for it. John got it as a Christmas gift from Mycroft. Of course he knew it was because Mycroft wanted John to be able to help his brother in emergency situations. There was a nice surgical kit, various drugs and bandage materials. But today John was going to use diagnostic tools - he needs to know first, what the problem with Sherlock is.

Sherlock was sitting in the exact same position as he left him. Only maybe shaking his body a little more in pain and fever. John sat opposite him on the corner of the coffe table and opened his bag.

"I´m back, Sherlock."he said and run his hand through his flatmate´s dark curls to offer some comfort. "I´m going to examine you now. Is that OK?"he asked, but not really did he wait for an answer. First, he grabbed for Sherlock´s wrist and took his pulse. And he wasn´t very happy about it. Too fast and too weak. He got a modern digital thermometer out of his bag and sticked its piece into Sherlock´s ear. His friend´s eyes was still closed and he moaned silently as the cold iron unexpectantly touched his inner ear.

"You´ve got pretty high fever, almost 40." John frowned as he retrieved the thermometer and touched Sherlock´s neck to feel for any abnormalities. Lymphatic nods were swollen and Sherlock moaned painfully again when John pressed them.

As much as John didn´t want to admit this, he was scared. Sherlock was obviously in a very bad shape. But at this moment, John could not afford any time to contemplate his own emotions or fears. It was time for him to act cooly and profesionally - to act as a doctor.

John was now checking Sherlock´s blood pressure, which was surprisingly not looking any better then the rest of his life sighns. Dangerously low. And his pulse-ox was also borderline John realised after placing the electrode on his finger. This was definitely not good.

"Sherlock, I need to listen to your hearth and lungs, now. It´ll be over soon. I promise." He put the earpieces of his stethoscope to his ears and warmed the other end with his palm a bit and than pressed it against the very pale and burning skin of Sherlock´s chest. He closed his eyes concentrating on the sounds.

"I know it hurts, Sherlock, but could you lean forward for me? I have to listen to your back too." John said and in the same time he noticed Sherlock was already struggling with the move, knowing John would ask for it, but miserabelly failed.

"Come on, let me help you." John´s steady arm slipped behind Sherlock´s shoulders and heped him sit forward.

"Right. And one more deep breath for me, would you?" Sherlock tried, but the moment his lungs filled with air they started to spasm freneticaly and Sherlock started a violent caughing fit.

"It´s OK. Just breath. In...and out...in...and out...and in...and out. Great, that´s it."John´s hand on Sherlock´s shoulder gently pushed him to lean back to the sofa.

John was well aware thet the next part of the examination will most definitely be the most inconvenient one, but he needed to be thorough at this.

"OK. I will palpate your abdomen now. You need to lay down for me." and he slowly guided Sherlock down to lay on the sofa.

"I´m going to bend your knees now. And open your belt to free the area. There we go." John lifted the thin and soft fabric of Sherlock´s shirt and exposed bare flesh. He looked up to see his friend´s face. Sherlock was fighting pain, his eyes still closed and left hand touching his burning forehead.

"You let me know if there is any discomfort or pain." there was a slight nod. John started to explore the abdomen, moved his hands almost automticaly as he´s done it thousands of times before, but this time maybe a little more carefully and gently. The moment Sherlock hissed in pain John immediately felt his enlarged splin.

"How long do you have this abdominal pain?" John askes and continues pressing on Sherlock´s belly.

"About 3 hours" Sherlock managed to grin through his teeth.

"Well, all done now." Johnd concluded and guided his patient´s legs to lay flat again. Sherlock was shivering.

"Cold...cold. I´m cold." Sherlock was mumbeling incoherrently.

John tucked several blankets around him and speaking in reassuring and comforting voice he said "Sherlock, your body is fighting some serious infection. And you´re dehydrated. We need to take care of this first."

Sherlock felt something cool on his forearm - an alcohol whipe - he realised, and heard some plastic bags beeing opened, gloves beeing put on.

"There will be a little stick." John said and than there was a sharp sensation of a needle in his forearm. John expertly found the vein for in the matter of seconds and than secured the IV port with tape. Than connected it with a tube and suddenly Sherlock felt the cool fluid of the sailine bag flow through his veins. John adjusted the drift and hanged the bag on a bookshelf above the sofa.

"That should do the trick, with the dehydration. Now, we need to talk about the rest. Tru is I´m not sure what´s going on with you. I would need to do some more tests, like bloodwork and toxscreen or an abdominal CT for that matter. And I would like to have you looked after in a hospital.

"No, John. No hospitals.."

"Sherl..."

"John, "Sherlock gathered some strength to talk "It´s 10 pm. The hospital is certainly understuffed. Night shift will only care for acute cases. We will wait for ages to be admitted and even than there is no guarantee they will have the space for you to do the tests you want."

Sherlock closed his eyes again, clearly exhausted from the efford of thinking and talking. John frowned at his arguments. He knew how badly Sherlock hated hospitals and would do anything to avoid them, but this time, John realised he was right. There is nothing a hospital could provide to Sherlock that John coudn´t for tonight. He will take him to St. Barts tomorow when his own shift startes. And he could take care of all the tests himself.

"Fine. But under one condition." John finally agreed. "You stay monitored and in bed without complainig."

"I´m clearly not going anywhere soon" Sherlock replied bitterly amused and wanted to laugh, but started to caugh again.

"Easy, easy. Good that your humor is not leaving you. Let´s get you something for the pain and some IV antibiotics for the beginning."

There was the sound of bags, gloves and tubes again. And than a sound of glass drug-bottles beeing picked up, a short pause while the liquid was drained into the syringe and than Sherlock felt the drug running into his veins. It felt very good. Soon he started to feel drowsy and sleepy. And the pain was really a bit better now.

"Ahh..." escaped from Sherlock´s lips.

"Good. Glad it works that fast, aren´t you? I´m going to set up the monitoring of your pulse."

He got a package from his medical bag, opened it and revealed six self-sticking electrodes and placed them on Sherlock´s chest. Than connected them to a flat monitor silently thanking Mycroft while the modern monitor began to peep in the rythm of his patient´s hearth. Sherlock was fine for now, but the numbers weren´t really good. There was nothing more John could do for now but to wait for the drugs to kick in. And to watch his friend very closely. He sat into his chair and started a long vigil at his flatmate´s bedside.


	2. The Doctor s vigil

2:30 am

2:35 am

2:45 am

2:46 am

Maybe the time wasn´t passing at all. Maybe it just stopped. John started to feel desperate. Every time he checked the clock it seemd to go slower.

He got up and whipped the cold sweat from Sherlock´s burning forehead with a clean cotton gauze. Than he checked his teperature once again - the thermometer beeped - no change. Blood pressure? No change. IV? Going fine. Monitor? Heartbeat steady, no arrythmia, bit too fast - no change. Pulse-ox? - no change, still low. Breathing? Laboured, shallow, wheezing - but no change

How many times had John done all of this during the last few hours? Well, he lost counting. He wished he could do more. Sherlock was asleep, but not with the heathy dreaming-about-nice-things kind of sleep, but with heavy exhaustion and drug induced sleep, when the body is no longer capable of staying awake and fight. John could even think his patient was in coma if he didn´t check his eyelids for reaction to light.

John hated this. This sitting and waiting. He hated himself - one minute for not taking Sherlock to the hospital, the other for not recognizing his symptoms sooner, and than for not protecting Sherlock from all the harm. He was angry - with Sherlock, that he didn´t take better care of himself, and than again John turned his angry attention against himself once more - why the hell didn´t he stop Sherlock from doing all the dangerous things? Next time...next time...

No, this anger is not going to be any useful for anyone now. He needed to think, he needed to concentrate. He sat down again, but his eyes still focused on his friend´s pale face and his ears on the steady beeping of the monitor. He tried to concentrate. But there were emotions again flodding him like a wave - love, concern, fear.

Stop. Stop this. At this point, he really envied Sherlock to be able to block his emotions towards the crime victims. It gave him the space to think properly. But John, no matter how hard he tried, could not block their friendship. He could not stay detached and cool.

He needed more information. More data. More details. To find out what the probelm with his friend was. Of course, he had theories. Some of them quite realistic, some a bit delusional - but Jonh was accounting this to the very late - or early - hour and to his distracted mental status. But some theories sounded trustworthy -

1. Sherlock got some common infection but decided to ignore it for beeing too boring and too dull for him. With his immune system compromised by poorly eating, sleeping and generally taking care of his body, he did not fight if off and he developed secondary complications

2. It is something more complicated in the first place. Definitely an infection, but where? For guessing any rare ilnessis the symptoms were much unspecific, but too severe to be just a flu. Could be something hematipoietic, when the enlarged splin is involved, but no way to tell this without bloodwork.

3. It is something else.

Actually, John had a pretty good idea what this "somthing else" might be, but he really hesitated even to think about it. Poison. Someone tried to kill Sherlock.

But he already ran thrugh the list of all the poisons he knew in his head and there was none matching Sherlock´s symptoms. No, he´s getting sick from all the crime he sees all the time. Let´s stay realistic...

But somewhere deep down he felt he shouldn´t leave the idea so lightly.

He got up to check on Sherlock one more time and than returned to listenig the regular beeping sound of Sherlock´s heart monitor.

But than, suddenly, the alarm went off.


	3. The Brother s concern

In John´s ears, the sound of the alarm was incerdibly loud. It filled the whole room, the whole London, the whole universe. It exploded in his mind like a supernova.

He was already up at Sherlock´s bedside, adrenalin flodding his body as he was pressing his fingers against Sherlock´s neck to feel the pulse.

And there it was. Steady beating of a heart.

„What the hell..." John thought checking the monitor once again - but there was no change. This was when John finally realised the source of what he´d thought to be the alarm - his mobile phone. It was just a call to answer, but John´s worried mind had chosen to hear the alarm instead and overreacted.

A bit weak from the sudden rush of action John grabbed for his phone and answered it.

„Hello?"

„John." Only the one word, no greetings, no introductions. This could only be the one person.

„Mycroft.." John replied.

„John...I was...well..." Hesitation? Maybe even nervousness? Mycroft never acts like this. Odd.

„I wanted to ask about my little brother. Is he...there with you?"

Deffinitely odd. How in the world coud he know...Oh! Yes of course! The medical bag! He should get used to this. Of course Mycroft would want to be informed if something happened to Sherlock - and there was an easy way. The life sighns monitor alerted Mycroft the moment John activated it.

„Why would you ask?" John tried, not wanting to ease Mycroft´s way at this point.

„I was just wondering - maybe you need an ambulance in Baker Street?"

There was no longer a reason to hide the facts.

„Sherlock is OK for now. But I´m going to take him to in the morning to do some tests." There is no need to worry - he wanted to add - but, honestly, he just couldn´t. Not yet.

„Well than. You have my complete confidence in this, Doctor Watson." John guessed bringing up his medical degree helped Mycroft to ease his concern. It looked like Mycroft was about to say something more but he couldn´t find the right words for it. John, however, had a pretty good idea.

„I will let you know the moment I have some results, or if there is time to really worry." He said and he could almost feel the relief on Mycrof´s ice-looking face. And he most certainly felt it in his not-so-usual-icy voice, when he said „Thank you" and hanged up.

The room was floating in the early morning light and from behind the windows John could hear the sounds of streets getting ready for a busy working day. Not that it was any of his promblems right now. He felt somewhat detached from all the "normal" life, it seemed boring, not important even annoyingly dull at this moment. Only one thing mattered - the mystery of Sherlock´s illness - and solving it.

John checked the clock. 5:15. His shift startes at 6:00. It was time to wake Sherlock and get him to a cab. He got up and slightly shaked his friend´s shoulders.

„Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up for me. Let´s get you to the hospital."

After a while much longer to his liking Sherlock opened his eyes and starred blanky at John. Or much more through him. Finally the grey eyes focused.

„There we go! Good morning Sherlock. I´ll give you a minute to adjust now, and I´ll go see if I can find any fresh shirt for you."

He got back from Sherlock´s room and helped Sherlock to sit up and unbuttoned the sweat-soaked shirt he was wearing. Than threw it on the floor and supported his friend´s back with his hand. But as his palm touched Sherlock´s back, he hissed in pain.

„What is it, Sherlock? Does it hurt?"John asked concerned.

„Let me see..." and he leaned forward to have a better view at his patient´s back. There were huge bruises along Sherlock´s spine. John was sure they weren´t there just few hours ago. And no way Sherlock could cause them by some injury while lying on the sofa. They were hematomas of an non-traumatic origin - so maybe his original theory of some hematipoietic - that´s blood-related - illness wasn´t that far from true.

But now there was no time to waste. He needed Sherlock in hospital as soon as possible. He half walked half carried the almost-sleeping Sherlock down to the street and litteraly loaded him into a cab.

„St. Barts" he said and the car started to move.


	4. Hospital

The moment the cab stopped in front of St. Bart´s hospital, John rushed in to get a wheelchair for Sherlock. He knew his flatmate will not be happy about it, but at this point, John was not sure Sherlock could handle the few steps from the car to the hospital´s emergency entrance.

Back at the car he put his hand on Sherlock´s shoulder and woke the now once again sleeping detective.

„Sherlock, we´re here. I need to get you in. Will you help me?" He asked, his arms slowly slipping behind his friend´s shoulders for support.

Sherlock nodded and let John help him to the wheelchair.

* * *

><p>Pain. Distraction. Pain. His eyelids were so heavy. He tried to concentrate - John was talking to him. Why is it so hard to focus his mind? This must be important. Oh! Yes! He must sit in this wheelchair. That´s important. Is it important? Why is it important? He didn´t know. But he felt himself being lifted and seated. Yes, mission completed. He can go to sleep again.<p>

„No, Sherlock. Don´t sleep just yet. I´ll get you to bed in no time I promise, but stay with me just a moment longer, OK?"

John. He doesn´t want him to sleep. Fine, he won´t. Where were we? Oh, the pain. The distraction. Focus. No sleeping. John. He is being moved now. He can feel it, he can hear John talking to somebody, but the words just doesn´t seem to make any sence. Maybe if he wasn´t so bloody tired he could understand. He just needs a little nap...

„John" a rich barytone sounded in the amost empty waiting area somehow like in a church.

„Mycroft, what are you doing here. I really have no time for your usual dramatic shows. I need to have Sherlock proper examined and than treated for what ever it is. The is no time..."

„I concluded so" Mycroft interrupted. „That´s why I tried to prepare here everything for you. There is a private ICU room waiting, exam room 3 has been cleared for you and I took the liberty of speaking with your chief who has freed you from all other cases and left you in charge of the Sherlock´s one. You also have extra priority for all resources of this hospital, any test or staff you ask for will be ready for you. "

That was Mycroft all along. John was sure he could arrange all of this on his own, but it would take some time. And right now, he was glad he didn´t have to spend time dealing with hospital policy instead of helping Sherlock.

„Thank you." was all John said.

„Take care of my brother." Mycroft said and for a brief moment watched Sherlock, who was fighting consciousness again. He stretched his arm towards Sherlock and John was sure he was going to touch his brother´s forehead but he changed his mind in the last moment and only shaked John´s hand instead.

„Please, keep me informed." Mycroft said and left without looking back.

John pushed Sherlock right to the door of exam room 3, passing by triage nurse, who smiled at him and nodded towards Sherlock and asked if he needed any assistance and John requested two more nurses to help with Sherlock´s examination.

Soon Sherlock was helped at the examination table and John started to give commands to the nurses. Monitoring of patient´s life sighns was being set up while Jonh listened to his heart and lungs again a realised both were worse. Apereantly the infection was winning the fight.

John managed to stay cool this time. Proffesional and shiny environment of his hospital gave him the much needed confidence and the ability to act quickly. He asked the nurse to bring the portable ultrasound machine and ordered blood panel, toxscreen and CBC and virology tests.

Sherlock´s shirt had been changed for a hospital gown, which was now lifted as one of the nurses helped Jonh prepair the patient for the ultrasound examination.

The gel felt cold on Sherlock´s abdomen. The moving machine on his oversensitive skin felt more than uncomfortable. But there was John, talking to him in the same reassuring voice explaining him what he was doing next and telling him everything is going to be just OK. And Sherlock trusted him. He was his blogger after all.

* * *

><p>John was sitting beside Sherlock. The detective driffted to sleep soon after being placed in the private room. That was about 10 hours ago. In the meantime the room changed into John´s office. Not willing to leave Sherlock for even one moment he let all the test results be brought in and now he was watching over one wall of the room completly covered with notes, x-ray pictures, EKG and EEG readings and lab results. And still, nothing made sence. John had already consulted every expert not even in this hospital, but in the whole England , about Sherlock´s results, but nobody had any idea. It was strange. John gave him high dose of strong antibiotics few hours ago and at first, Sherlock seemed to react well to it. But now he was worsening again, and another route of the medication was completly uneffective.<p>

The infection must be very resitent, John thought and looked at the x-ray of Sherlock´s lungs again. There were singnificant shadows on it. The infection must be hiding somewhere, and John would bet it was the lungs. He considered direct lung-biopsy - if he knows what the bloody thing is, he can kill IT. There was only one problem - he was not sure Sherlock was strong enough for such a major procedure. It could easily kill HIM.

But there is no longer another option here, John decided. Sherlock is getting weaker by the minute and if he waits, the procedure will be more and more risky. John pressed the button to call a nurse to scheduel an OR and a surgeon for him and slightly shaked the image of his friend being opened on an OR table from his head. It will help, Sherlock will be fine.

* * *

><p><em>More is coming really soon - I am already on writing... And the next chapter will be really important and unexpected - so keep reading...<em>


	5. Deduction

**Hi, I promised to finish this story a long time ago. Well, I am back... Hope you like it. Rapalacha**

* * *

><p>Sometimes the world seems disconnected from you. Sometimes you look around and you hear people talking and see them passing but it feels like they are all behind thick glass and everything you hear and see is somehow surreal.<p>

That's exactly how John felt. This can't be real. He was standing in corner of a modern operating room trying not to get into anyone's way. The only part of his friend visible under the operating sheets and machines was his face. He watched it for a long time, suddenly realising it was the only thing in the whole room he could really concentrate on. His subconscious mind noted and understood every move the surgical team made, he even noticed every little change on the ECG and heard every sound of the ventilator, which made Sherlock breathe. But he wasn't able to tear his sight off the pale face on the table. He must be missing something. But what?

"John... John?...John?" He felt a gentle squeeze on his shoulder and finally looked up to see kind and concerned eyes of OR nurse Claire Stepehenson.

"John, Dr. Smith is about to close now. It's very unlikely there will be any more complication. I am going to take you out and buy you a coffee and we will watch the rest of the surgery from the gallery. Come on."

John was lethargic, deep in thoughts, and he let himself been led out to the scrub-room. He didn't border to change, he just got ridd of the mask, gloves and cap and simply wore his white coat over the scrubs. In that exact moment his pocket vibrated. He reached in and found his phone.

_How is our friend doing? Not enjoying my game as usually, is he? JM_

If it was possible for John's blood to litteraly froze in his veins, it would have happened in this moment. He stared at the little screen not seeing the words of the text message but reading : I poisoned Sherlock, Best sincerely, Moriarty, instead.

Once he has recovered from the shock, he quickly typed:

_What have you done to him?_

The device vibrated again.

_Oh, that's not fair. You are cheating and cheating is bad. I am not telling you. JM_

John felt like fainting from the rush of anger and adrenaline and managed to type only one world back, not that it would really matter but still:

_Why?_

_I was bored. And I just had this great IDEA! JM_

Another OR nurse chose this moment to enter the scrub-room and she handed John a small cooling box. The samples of tissue from Sherlock's biopsy. He took it and ran, coffee-break completely forgotten.

* * *

><p>"Are you sure, John? I mean, you're under great amount of pressure, maybe you...I don't know...don't take me wrong...but maybe you missunderstood, somehow." Lestrade's voice was tired, but John recognised the tone - it was the tone detective inspector used when speaking to grieving and confused families of a victim.<p>

"I didn't." John simply stated and continued to stare out through the window. He saw a part of 's hospital's court yard and a little garden. It was a nice sunny day and a lot of patients were outside chatting with their families on the benches or just walking around enjoying some fresh air. There was also a small group of kids playing hopscotch.

"John, Moriarty is dead. He could not have poisoned Sherlock." Lestrade said, his soothing tone now enritched by slight irritation and hopelessness.

"No, He is not."

"Oh my God, Mycroft. You scared me to death! Why do you sneake in like this?" DI cried out jumping from his chair.

"How is he doing, John?" Mycroft asked and walked over to Sherlock's bed. John didn't need to turn around and look at the monitors. He knew all the numbers exactly. He continued to stare blankly outside while he answered.

"Critical, but stable for now." John said still facing the window and Mycroft nodded, more for himself, than anyone. He slowly, almost hesitantly, stretched his hand and placed his palm on Sherlock cheek. It was warm, unnaturally hot, actually.

"Wait, what?" Lestrade said, clever enough not to complain he was being ignored by Mycroft. The latter slowly turned to face the DI and began methodically examining his own palm as if he saw it for the first time in his life.

"I am afraid it is true, detective inspector. Moriarty indeed is not dead. At least not in the common sense of the word." Mycroft said.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Lestrade cried and run his hand through his hair.

One, two, three...one, two, three...one, two, three...Children on the yard were still deep in the game of Hopscotch and John watched them, fascinated. Game. Rules. Excitement. Rivals. Winner. Looser. Game. One, two,three...One, two, three...Everything Moriarty says has its purpose. One, two, three...It is a game and he is giving clues. He must be missing something. But what? One, two, three...He must be missing something and it's close. Somewhere in the Hopscotch. He must be missing something.

"Moriarty faked his own death." Mycroft replied, his usual calmness melting away.

"Wait, I thought Sherlock did! Why isn't anybody talking to me, ever?" Lestarde exploded.

"Because you are just an ordinary policeman and you have no idea.."

"Oh come on, Mycroft. You know that Sherlock is my friend, something you will never have. He hates you."

"Once in a lifetime..." But Mycroft's thread stayed unfinished, because the out-of-the-window-starring John suddenly yelled and both men stayed still and silent.

Something in the Hopscotch, something in the game. He must be missing something. But he can't concentrate. The two prats are babling like housewifes. He needs more...more...

"Shut up!" John exploded. He needs more ideas. Ideas? IDEAS!

"OH!"

This was an unmistakable sound of a completed deduction, mystery solved, case finished.


End file.
